Head Rush
by Terin
Summary: Sydney is taken captive by the Covenant after Lauren finds out about her suspicions that she is a double agent. (SV)
1. Prologue: Edge of the Knife

Author's Note:  Howdy readers—ok so this idea has been bugging me for a while, and after watching the trailer for unveiled, I felt like I _had _to sit down and write it.  That being said, it's still pretty rough, but I wanted to post it before 'Unveiled' because I felt like I'd never do it if I didn't do it today.  So here goes…Read, Enjoy, and _please, please, please _**review.  **I've already got the first few chapters planned out…but reviewing will make me get them out much, much, faster!

Timeline:  I wrote this after watching The Frame, and after watching the previews for "Unveiled", but I have not seen Unveiled yet. 

Disclaimer:  J.J. is God…'nuff said.

** H E A D   R U S H **

**Prologue:  **

~*~*~*~*  

5 A.M, January 29, 2006 

I wake up to the screeching sound of a cell door and a damp hard floor that smells vaguely of mildew.  Pain floods my body in searing waves and is so great that I'm almost afraid to open my eyes.  In any case, I know what I'll see when I do open them—the dim green-yellow glow of the only light in vicinity cast upon a small grubby cell currently occupied by me, a pair of shackles that attaches my hands to the wall and a Box left in the corner of the room which has been left with me to "think about" all night.  _Good morning, sunshine_ mocks my minds inner dialogue.  

"Good morning, sunshine,"  This time the sarcastic phrase comes not from my own thoughts, but from the sticky-sweet voice of the person who has just entered the room.  

I finally open my eyes, and stare my captor down as I say, cool as ice, "Good morning, Lauren."  If there is one thing I won't do (actually, I'm sure there are several) I won't act intimidated, especially by _her_.  

"Ah Sydney dear, I'm so glad you're feeling better today.  That does look like such a terribly nasty cut you've got there.  I hope you won't mind if I take a look at it."  Before I even know what's happening she's grabbed my arm and is pulling apart the six-inch gash I received yesterday.  I can't help but wince.

"I'm so sorry dear, but I think it might be infected," she says, releasing my arm and moving to the corner of the room, where she bends to pick up the Box, "Now dear, I hope you've had some time to think about this Box here.  I know you wouldn't really want me to open it, and this can all be avoided if you just answer a few simple questions."

Her voice suddenly becomes stern and she blurts out, "What have you told Michael about me?"

"What bothers you more?  That he might have figured you out, or that you weren't good enough and he was going to leave you _anyways_?"  I can't help it—I've hated her for too long not to have fun with the fact that Vaughn wanted a divorce even _without_ knowing she was Covenant.

She jerks back as though she was slapped and for the first time, I can see the façade of control melt into what appears to be anger.  

Before I have time to even process what's happened, her fist has collided with my face and she's opened the box.  

"I don't think that was a very good idea, Sydney, and I'm sure that in I few hours you'll agree with me.  This could have all been prevented if you hadn't been such a whore trying to steel my husband away from me.  Now I'll only ask you one more time, what did you tell Michael about me?"  She's returned to her original cool persona and glares at me with hard, cold eyes, a smirk drawn across her face.

I cough, and whisper something out.  As her face draws nearer, it registers that I'm playing with fire but I have too much anger to care at this point.  Without a second thought, I spit in her face.

Once again I see the control fade away and the anger take over.  She grabs something from the top of the box and plunges it into my stomach.  

I can't help but scream.  I can see half of what appears to be a long butcher knife protruding from my abdomen.  Blood is rushing out, rolling down my legs and torso in a frantic race.  I stare it—bright red contrasting sharply with white skin—as I struggle to remain conscious, my breath barely returning to me in shallow pants.  I close my eyes.

"Isn't it amazing," she says, and even with my eyes closed I can hear the smile in her voice, "how such a simple kitchen knife can inflict so much pain?"  She begins to slowly twist the knife within my gut, and I cry out again, praying to whatever God is listening to be swept off by unconsciousness.

As though she can hear my thoughts, Lauren jerks out the knife and grabs my face with cold clammy hands, jerking it towards her and forcing me to open my eyes in astonishment.  "Don't you think of going anywhere, Sydney.  The fun hasn't even begun yet."  With that she slaps me hard across the face, stands up and walks to the door, her high heels knocking on the cold floor as she walks away.  

"I'll be back in one hour." She tells the guard at the door, and with that she is gone, her high heels clicking down the hall and into oblivion.  

I close my eyes.  It's been a long day.  

*~*~*~*

_24 hours earlier…_

"Vaughn!"

"I know my wife!" 

She sighs.  "Vaughn, I know this can't be easy to hear but really, you have to try to understand…"  Her voice trails off and is quickly overpowered by my own.  Detachedly, I hear myself snap back at her, as though from another body.  

"NO, Sydney, _you_ don't understand.  I _know _my _wife._  I don't know what the hell you think your playing at, but I never thought you'd sink this low just to get me back."  The words are out of my mouth before they even register in my brain, though the reaction is visible instantly on her face: first hurt, and then anger.

"That's what you think this is, then?  Huh?  Some twisted plot to get you back?  Thanks but no thanks.  You're _not worth it_.  I came to you as a friend, AS SOMEONE WHO CARED ABOUT YOUR WELL BEING, and you walk all over me and claim that I'm lying to you.  Go, then!  Go, run back to you're "wife" or traitor or whatever the hell she is!  I guess you've always had a thing for double agents…but fine, don't believe me!  See if I give a shit about you or your lack of faith or your twisted marriage."  With that she stamps out, her face contorted in anger, tears streaming down her face, leaving me to my thoughts.  I've only heard her anger so harshly directed at me once before—right after she'd just come back from being missing for two years and berated me for not having faith.

I immediately feel horrible.  The truth is, I've just hurt the one person that means the world to me, the one person I'd die for…the one person whose love I've already betrayed by marrying another woman.  

Despite all of this, my mind fights against the information she's just given me so bluntly—that my wife is a traitor and a double agent for the Covenant. _She has to be wrong.  There must be some mistake._

I flop down on my bed and close my eyes.  What she's told me is tugging at my mind, and I realize that secretly I'm far too eager to accept that my wife works for the Covenant.  .  Lauren's_ a good person.  She wouldn't do that.  This is me just trying to get out of an unhappy relationship._

The problem is, too many ridiculous stories and excuses for reasons to leave Lauren have been flying through _my _mind, and not a few of them involve Lauren working for some bad-guy or another, with me sweeping Sydney off to safety and happiness

But it's only a dream, and until then, I have to live with reality.

To Be Continued…

Good, bad, or ugly?  Please let me know—just click on the little button in the bottom left corner and submit a too second review.  Thanks for reading!


	2. Acid Suspicion

Disclaimer:  J.J. is God…'nuff said.

Timeline:  I wrote this after watching The Frame, and after watching the previews for "Unveiled", but before I actually saw Unveiled. 

Rating: PG-13 for violence.

Author's Note:  Thank you so much to everyone one who reviewed—I appreciate it immensely.  I'm sorry for the delay on this chapter—I was planning to post it last week but I had a big choir competition and prom and was very busy.  Luckily, track seasons over, and I'm done with my theater and choir competitions so I should be able to update this much more quickly—if I get enough reviews, I'll try to post the next chapter by Sunday.  Anyway, without further ado…Read, Enjoy, and _please, please, _**review.  **(hey, that rhymes!) 

Chapter 1:  Acid Suspicion 

6 A.M.—_Sydney_

All too quickly, the minutes whiz by.  I've always had an innate ability to tell time, which is great for waking up in the morning and getting to work on time but not so bright in torture situations when time either goes far to slowly during the torturing and much too quickly between sessions.

Creek.  I can't help but wince as the door squeaks open and Sark walks in a minute after my mind's told me an hour has passed.  

I hate being right all the time.

"Hello Sydney.  I'm sorry to see you in such bad spirits.  I'm sorry to say that Lauren can't come visit with you at the present moment—quite unfortunately for you someone's just showed her pictures of you and her husband exchanging…err…sentiments in North Korea." 

He pauses, as though for dramatic effect, then continues, "I'm afraid she's not very happy.  She got a bit hysterical and mentioned something about getting a gun and shooting you.  And well, I couldn't just let that happen.  I'm rather fond of you, Sydney, and, most importantly, you have important information which will be impossible to extract if you're dead.  So _I_ decided to come by and visit you."

I open my eyes and immediately the world starts spinning in circles around my head.  Dimly it registers that I must have lost a lot of blood, and I glance down at the hole in my stomach that is causing it to pool around me.  _That should make an interesting scar._

Observing that he doesn't have my full attention, Sark draws closer to me and whispers, "Listen to me, Sydney.  Believe me when I say _she will not hesitate to kill you_.  Trust me, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

I do my best to scowl at him and mutter, "As if _you_ wouldn't hesitate to kill me.  I'm not going to play along with your little 'good cop/bad cop' routine."

"You'd do well to.  I give you my _word_ that when you've given me enough information on The Passenger and Michael Vaughn, I _will_ let you go.  I can't promise anything such thing with Lauren."

"I'm sorry Sark, I don't make deals with _terrorists._"

"Ouch.  That one hurt Bristow,"  he drawls sarcastically, "I'm disappointed in you.  You must really be under the weather."  He gives my stomach a slight pat and says, with mock concern, "That doesn't look too good, Sydney.  You really ought to get it looked at." 

  
The door creeks again and he's gone.  "Thanks for caring," I mumble after him, before darkness grabs me.  

*~*~*~*~*

_24 hours earlier…_

It's as though she had wanted me to find out.  As though it was fate, or karma.  

I'd  been scheduled to go on an operation in Minsk with Weiss which was suddenly canceled.  I'd come home early under pretenses of surprising her with take out dinner from her favorite Chinese place.  The accusations Sydney had voiced earlier were heavy on my mind, but I thought that by doing this I'd be re-enforcing the normalcy of our lives: just an everyday working couple, enjoying a nice take-out meal in the comforts of our own home after a tiring day at the office.

I could not have been more wrong. 

The first clue, of course, was that Lauren was no-where to be found.  Not an unusual occurrence—the "NSC" had been sending her to and from Washington at least once a week, but she'd told me she'd be here this week when I told her I had a mission in Belarus.   She'd acted quite upset and had complained about how we never spent time together and how she'd specially scheduled a travel-free week for me.  But she was nowhere to be seen.  

Syd's early accusations launched into my mind all too quickly, and it took a great deal of reason (or blindness) for me to calm my worries.  _She's probably at the store.  Just call her_.  I hastily dialed her cell phone number, only to hear a continuous ringing and an odd buzzing sound.  

She'd left her cell phone on the night-stand.  She never leaves her cell-phone; is almost obsessive about making sure that she takes it with her everywhere (that should have been my first clue).  Yet here it was lying casually on the floor by the bathroom door as though she'd dropped it in a rush.  

  
I couldn't help but pick it up.  I'd tried once to program my new work number into Lauren's phone—the second she saw me with it she'd snatched it away, a look of something that resembled panic fleeting across her eyes.  Realizing that I'd noticed this, she hurried to say, "Sorry love, but I'm expecting a really important call from Lindsey—I can't miss it."

I can't say that I picked up on this—it was before Sydney had come back and I'd really had no reason whatsoever to suspect her for anything.  But now, as I studied the phone which she'd never since left casually lying around, I couldn't help but categorize the incident atop a growing pile of suspicions in my mind.

Buzz

I was jolted out of my jog down doubt-my-wife lane by the phone's sudden jerk in my hands.  It was ringing.  I glanced down at the phone's face where it read "unknown name/unknown number"—a blocked call.  To my knowledge, the NSC did not block it's numbers when making phone calls to acknowledged employees.  

At that moment I knew that I was going to open the phone, and that this would irrevocably change my relationship with Lauren.  Even if it was just a wrong number, I knew that my opening the phone would mark some symbolic step as the moment that the doubts I had been trying to push to the back of my mind became real.  Even if it was nothing, it would be the materialization of my distrust in my wife, and could cause major relationship problems.  At that moment, I also realized that I didn't care. 

I opened the phone and said nothing, waiting for the caller to speak first.  An all-too familiar British accent answered.

"I've got a present for you, love.  You'll be quite pleased—I got Bristow."

 TBC

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

AN:  Okay guys, I realize that this is a short chapter, but I'm almost completely done with the next one and I'll try to get it out by Sunday before Alias.  Of course, I would definitely get it out if I get enough reviews (no, I'm not trying to blackmail you for reviews with my fic, but reviews really, really make me write faster).  So, please just write a two second review and tell me what you think of it so far—I'd greatly appreciate it.

  
Thanks for reading,

~Terin:-)


	3. Distorted Glass

Disclaimer:  J.J. is God…'nuff said.

Timeline:  I wrote this after watching The Frame, and after watching the previews for "Unveiled", but before I actually saw Unveiled. 

Rating: PG-13 for violence.

Author's Note:  Sorry for the delay—I'm in the process of moving, and every time I've attempted to sit down and write something, my mom's shoved a box in my hands and told me to go pack.  That being said, I'm not sure if this is the most interesting chapter—it's a lot of exposition (especially on Sydney's end), but I promise there'll be more action next chapter.  

Thanks to Cazzie, Radgrad63, Jenny, Lady Prongs of Rohan, Ann, aliasfan, your song, ms vaughn, Rach5, kqzl4312, me, TheUptownGirl, ProvidenceSea, Natalie, Ruby, Nicole, alias4ever, and Roonie for the great reviews.  (Roonie—I love your story and think it's brilliant.  I hope you give us just one more chapter!)

As always, reviews (including constructive criticism) are greatly appreciated.  (So **please **review).

Chapter 2 

_Vaughn_.

"I've got a present for you, love.  You'll be quite pleased—I got Bristow."

I stop breathing, not knowing how to respond to the cold British accent on the other line that I despise only too well.  

I'm a field agent—I'm trained to keep a level head in stressful situations and react calmly to even the most bizarre information.  But I freeze completely at hearing Sark's voice addressing _my_ _wife's_ phone as "love".

When I was finally able to re-attach my head to my body, I had enough sense to hang up the phone.  Sark would not be happy to realize that it wasn't Lauren ("_love_"—my brain unhappily mocks) on the phone, and I don't particularly want to wait around to hear him draw these particular conclusions. 

My second reaction is as to what he had said—"I got Bristow."  

Bristow—_That means Sydney.  He has Sydney.  HE has Sydney!_  My mind repeats this mantra over and over again like a broken record.  I stand there for about 5 minutes, engulfed by a strange numbness that slows my brain and freezes my joints.

*Ring*

  
I'm finally (thankfully) jolted out of my shocked one-tracked thought cycle by the phone—the house phone, not _her_ cell phone—and my body explodes into action.  I run to the phone, picking it up by the second ring without waiting to glance at the caller-ID.

"Hey Mike.  What're you doing tonight?  The Kings are on—I thought we could head over to Joey's, grab a slice of—" 

"She's the mole."  I cut Weiss off abruptly, feeling the need to get the truth which has been burning into my stomach out—to make it real, to do something about it.  

"What…what are you talking about?"

I slap my forehead, thinking about the error I've just made.  If Lauren is the mole (**_If?_  **_She is the mole, you idiot!)_ she'll most likely have the house line tapped, which means…

"Umm…"  I struggle for the words to rectify the situation—"Uhh, I think the new girl at the Ops Center—you know, Dixon's new secretary, might be the mole.  Look, um, hockey sounds great—right now.  I'll come over to your place."  It's a spectacularly poor excuse for a cover, and I don't really expect that it'll fool them for long—but I do hope that it will fool them for a bit.  With that I hang up the phone, and two minutes later I'm speeding down the road to Weiss's apartment.

*~*~*~*~*

Sydney 

I wake to a dim buzzing noise and wonder vaguely where I am.  My head and body are throbbing, and, all too quickly, I remember where I am and in what context—_actually—_my mind counters—_you have no idea where  you are… you could be anywhere—you don't even know which country (not to mention which continent) you're in!  You could be in bloody Antarctica for all you know!_  With that, my breathing quickens, and my eyes dart frantically from side to side.  

_Calm down!_

 The field agent in me has gained control over the lost little girl hysteria, and I struggle to regain control of my body.  Hyperventilating, at this point, could be extremely dangerous, especially with the amount of blood I've lost.

_Focus Sydney.  _I can't even remember how I got here!  I squeeze my eyes shut, wading through jumbled memories, trying to figure out how I got here.  

Vaughn's face is the first thing that swims into my mind's eye, and I can't help but smile at the thought of him.  In this memory, however, he's angry—_Sydney, you don't understand.  I know my wife_.  My mind is flooded with memories of our fiery conversation regarding Lauren, and I feel a twinge of regret at having left things the way I did.  In retrospect, I'm not sure I should have just flat out told him that I believed his wife to be a traitor to the United States.  Last year—_make that three years ago_—when Mitchell Yager told me of his suspicions of Vaughn being a double agent, I hardly just sat around and listened to what he had to say.  The fact is that I acted extremely defensive whenever Vaughn or even Noah's loyalties were called into question.  I can hardly expect him to respond any differently.

At the same time—especially knowing that my suspicions were correct—I can't help but like the way I threw the accusation on him.  We've always been close—had this intense, personal bond that few other people ever understood, and had the ability to tell each other just about everything.  

Ever since I came back, however, interaction between us had been tense, wooden, and excruciatingly *polite* (with a few exceptions).  We've been careful not to trip over each other's feelings, knowing that doing so would be detrimental to both of us.  We've been careful "friends"—a bit more than acquaintances, though not by much.  And it's the oddest, most unnatural thing in the world.

Don't get me wrong.  Friends are great.  Amazing.  Wonderful.  Crucial.  But Vaughn and I, even from those early days at the warehouse, were never _really_ friends.  There was always something between us—an unspoken but restrained feeling that burst free the second we took SD-6 down.  Now, even that seems faded, flowing into the gray and boring mold of our "friendship". 

That being said, yelling at him—having *****him* yell at me—was an almost welcome change.  It echoed some of the intensity of the past, when we didn't have to tiptoe around each other's feelings or think about the significance of each response to each other.  When we didn't have to ignore the elephant in the room.

_Concentrate, Sydney!_  Somewhere in the recesses of my memory, the word's of the Dr. Brazzel's eccentric student surface—_"I was in a tangent once."   _And that's exactly where I am—in a tangent.  _Tracing the twisted progression of your relationship with Vaughn is not going to help you remember how you got here_.  With a sigh, I push the memory of my harsh exchange with Vaughn aside, and attempt to remember what I did after that.  

My brain becomes mechanical in shifting through my memories.  I can't afford to get caught up again.  _I called Weiss.  I told him that I'd seen Lauren in a club, trying to get access to Cypher.  I told him of my suspicions.  I started crying.  I told him of my exchange with Vaughn.  I went home and…_here my memory becomes fuzzy and blurred, as if I'm looking at it through distorted glass. _I went home and curled up on the couch.  I got up to get a drink and as I did—_with that, my memory is cut off.  

"Must have been a tranq dart."  I mutter to myself.  Not that this helps me at all—I still have no clue where I am, and worse yet, the memory recall has left me exhausted.  Though I struggle to stay conscious, the black edges that have been threatening to take over my vision finally overcome me, and I drift off in sea of memories.

*~*~*~*~*

_Vaughn._

"What's up Mike?"  Weiss's eyes are questioning as he opens the door to his apartment.  

I inhale deeply before responding, "Lauren's the mole, and—"

He looks around, as though looking for someone who's listening to our conversation.  Apparently finding no one, his eyes turn back to mine.   "Did Sydney say something to you?"

He's reacted very calmly to the piece of information I've just given him—information which left me dumbly staring at my apartment wall for ten minutes.  _Was it really that obvious?  Where you really that blind?_

"What do you mean, did Syd say something?  Did you know about this?  Did she talk to you first?  Or did you suspect first?"  I know I'm wasting valuable time on trivial questions, but at this point, I don't seem to care.  I've spent the last year in a wasted relationship when I could have been with Syd—

Weiss starts to answer but I cut him off.  "Never mind, it doesn't matter.  Weiss—they have Sydney.  Sark has Sydney."

*~*~*~*~*

_Sydney._

I must have dozed off for a while, because the next thing I know, there are people in my room—six large burly men, and someone far too petite to be a guard.  _Lauren._  

"Patimee eeyo, peastreya!"*  She says, looking at the guards and pointing a finger in my direction.  _Russian_, my brain dumbly notes, slow to come to full alertness.  _I must be in Russia.  Or a Russian speaking country._

Before my brain fully registers what's happening, I'm being dragged off, a thick trail of blood staining the ground beneath me.  

TBC

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

*Thanks go out to my boyfriend, who helped me with the Russian/English translations.  Sorry if I butchered the spelling ;-)

AN:  Sorry if I bored you to tears with this chap—again, I promise some excitement is on the way for the next one.  *Turning on broken record*--Please, please, please review.  Don't make me beg.  (Actually, I'm pretty sure that I'm already begging.)

  
Thanks for reading,

~Terin:-)


	4. Seeing the Past

Disclaimer: J.J. is God…'nuff said.

Timeline: I wrote this after watching The Frame, and after watching the previews for "Unveiled", but before I actually saw Unveiled. 

Rating: PG-13 for violence.

Author's Note: Short chapter—I know. I'm in the middle of a crazy hell week ridden with both moving and AP exams (I took English on Thursday—3 essays in two hours; not exactly my forte (I don't like writing _that_ fast). Today, I've been moving into my new house (boxes, furniture—the whole shebang), and next week I've got two more AP's…Macro economics and Government, which I've got to study for in between moving. 

Needless to say I've been going CRAZY, and I might be another week before I update—though I might be inspired and review on Friday or Saturday if I get enough reviews.

As always, reviews (including constructive criticism) are greatly appreciated. (So **please **review).

Chapter 4 

--------

Vaughn 

--------

Sydney's status has just been confirmed as missing.

I exploded into a flurry of action after arriving at Weiss's—calling the CIA, calling Jack Bristow, driving back to my (_her_) house, letting in CIA agents to do a thorough search. I've been running around, always moving, always doing, ordering, telling, explaining, checking. I talked to more officers from The Agency than I can count—most about Lauren, some about Sydney. 'Round and 'round I've gone for countless hours, glad to have the release of action, knowing that I'm doing something—anything to help Sydney and not think about _her_. 

****Ring I answer my cell with a certain detachedness, and I can't help feeling like it's not really me whose doing all this—like I'm just watching from afar as someone else goes through the motions.

The cell emits Dixon's voice, which is telling me something about a lead…A lead on Sydney. My brain snaps to attention. _You have to find Sydney!_ Suddenly I'm overwhelmed with feelings of guilt and I only half listen to the what Dixon is saying as my brain repeats things like "She wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for you", and "You've ruined the only thing that mattered". Dixon mentions something about meeting at headquarters, and without knowing how I got there, I find myself in my car driving to the ops center. 

I sit, listen carefully with half of my brain to the mission that's laid before me, while the other half of my mind focuses on Sydney. I obsess about whether I'll ever be ever to fix this, whether she'll ever be able to trust me again. 

Before I know it, I'm on a plane to go rescue her—how cliché is that? As if I have any right to barge in and play the hero. 

------------

Sydney 

------------

The Russian guards drag me down countless hallways, gripping my feet tightly in sticky, warm, sweaty hands. I'm glad for that—the compound (or wherever the hell I'm being held_)_ is about as warm as a meat locker, and hard floor that I'm being dragged down is ice on my back. 

I try to concentrate on where they're taking me, but my perceptions are distorted—I lay flat on my back as they drag me by feet and my head is woozy from the blood loss. All I can do is stare at the halogen lights on the ceiling as they whoosh by, leaving stars in my eyes and bile in my throat. 

34 halogen lights, 5 turns and six hallways later, they stop at a door, dropping my legs with a thud and keying in the code to unlock it. I raise an eyebrow at their complacency, and their underestimation of my abilities. In a second I'm on my feet and running down the corridor as fast as my Jello-legs can take me, in the direction away from the one we came from. A second later they're after me, heavy black boots thumping against the floor, shouting to others for help in Russian tongues that are lilted with Ukrainian accents. 

Jolt! The stun-stick comes down hard on my back, reaching the exposed skin of where Lauren's knife butchered it hours ago. My body spasms at the flow of electricity sent through it, and I fall hard. _You didn't really expect to get anywhere anyways_ my mind muses—_but hey, you might as well go down fighting._ Then Lauren's here, and I open my eyes to the sound of her heavily accented Russian, not wanting her to see me in such a pathetic position. She glares down at me, looking about fifty feet tall from where my broken body lays. Soon I'm being picked up (after being given an extra jolt from the stick for good measure) and I'm carried off and into the room, where I'm laid on a steel table, a brilliantly bright light glaring into my eyes. 

"I thought you were smarter than that Sydney," her voice fills the room, and I note that it seems significantly more angry than at our previous encounter. "But then again you dim-wittedly bought into my lies for so long—as did Michael. He never even suspected, he didn't even begin to get anywhere near the truth." 

  
  
I open my mouth to retort, but as I do she shoves a rough canvas gag in my mouth, tying it around my head and saying, "Oh Sydney. If you can't say something nice, you might as well not say it at all. Didn't your mother ever tell you that? Oh, I forgot, _she lied to you too_."

Rage rises in me like a boiling brew and I want to attack her want to kill her for every moment she spent with Michael and for implying that my mother was anything like her, but cold metal restraints stop me, halting my kicks and squirms. 

"Where do you think you're going, my dear Sydney. You see, you've been a very bad girl, trying to steel other women's husbands, and bad girls must be punished." With that, she shoves a picture of me and Vaughn in my face, which must have been taken from a security camera in North Korea. 

I stare at it, trying to smile from under the confines of my gag, anything to spite her. She smiles back and the next think I know my world's on fire.

-------

Jack 

-------

I have never believed Michael Vaughn worthy of my daughter. I respect him enough—he's a fine agent—and at times, most particularly when it comes to rescuing Sydney, I even threatened to like him. Then again, at other times, I've positively hated him, for hurting my little girl.

  
  
I've never related to him. Until now.

We've been on a flight to Kiev for four hours. He sits in the chair across from me, reviewing the blueprints of the building we believe Sydney to be held in. He's been staring at them for the two and a half hours, and before that was tirelessly re-reading the extraction mission. 

I can see the wheels in his head turning, his mind focusing on anything except the brutal truth. I can see that he's doing anything and everything to avoid thinking about Lauren being the traitor. I can see his silence, the way he has icily and matter-of-factly answered everyone in simple, succinct phrases and nods. I see levelness of his face, the absence of his emotions.

I see myself. 

And I know what and where this path leads to. The destruction it causes. And I fear for him, and for my daughter. 

TBC

I've never written Jack's POV, so I might be a little OOC, but I really, really tried (E for Effort, right?;-) 

AN: I know, this is ridiculously short. But I figure I better post it now before my computer's dismantled;-) If I get enough reviews, I'll move heaven and hell to post the next chapter up soon (within 3-4 days)…if I don't get too many I'll spend the time unpacking boxes and studying for APs. 

Theoretically, how long it takes me to update is up to you…I leave it up to you to review. 

  
  
Thanks for reading,

Terin:-)

Oh, and many thanks go out to all my lovely reviewers--thanks so much guys!


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